The Power of Communication
by peacefulsands
Summary: No one knew who had given them Jensen originally, but Jensen and his post-its were just another one of those things that the Losers were used to.


**Title** : The Power of Communication

**Author**: peaceful_sands

**Fandom**: The Losers

**Characters**: Team with particular focus on Roque and Jensen

**Rating**: PG-13

**Word Count**: 1500 approx

**Disclaimer**: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

Written for the prompt : _Any, any, this is just to say. _

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><p><strong><span>The Power of Communication<span>**

No one knew who had given them Jensen originally, but Jensen and his post-its were just another one of those things that the Losers were used to. Most of them were just screwed up and dumped in the nearest trash once they'd been read, but a few were kept for posterity . . . of one kind or another.

They almost all started the same way with the words, "This is just to say . . ." but it was amazing just how many things Jensen still had to say in the average week, given how much he talked out loud the rest of the time anyway.

On the fridge, there was one that Pooch had found, but only because Cougar was still asleep when he'd gone in to his room. It was, as so many of them were, attached to Cougar's forehead in his sleep. "This is just to say I think you're awesome. Thank you for saving my life today. J." and underneath was a picture of a hat with a gun pointing out from underneath it with the word "Pow" coming out of the end of the gun. Pooch was impressed and truth be told it was a good sentiment, hence the insistence it went on to the fridge. It was easy to forget how much they all relied on Cougar being as good as he was to keep them all safe. Jensen was right, they should say stuff like that more often.

Pooch had added another to the fridge when he'd woken up to his own message, "This is just to say Jolene is awesome. You really should ask her to marry you before she goes off with someone else. J." He'd acted on the advice and lo and behold, he was now a very happily married man and wondering why Jolene put up with him. Although he still can't quite work out why he followed Jensen's advice that day; it's not like Jensen's the best example when it comes to relationships with women.

Clay had come stumbling out of his room on another occasion, after a heavy night, making it all the way to kitchen before he'd found the note stuck to the end of his nose, much to everyone else's amusement. The warning was a salutary one. "This is just to say Emma's not the girl for you. She's hiding stuff you don't want to get involved in." With hindsight, Clay would have taken more notice of that one, but at the time, he'd just screwed it up and thrown it out with the trash and not given it another thought. . . Until afterwards when he'd gone and banged on Jensen's door waking him up at the ass crack of dawn to find out what he'd actually known back then. Jensen's clearer with his notes for Clay now. The messages are unequivocal. "This is just to say this one is married," worked pretty well. "This is just to say this one has ripped off three guys already in divorce settlements, but before you ask, yes she is currently unattached," made Clay a little wary, but judging by the ensuing court costs, not wary enough.

Roque had boasted more than once that he hadn't had any post-its. Clay pretty much agreed it must be a good thing, given the content of all of his. Pooch and Cougar would disagree, but then again they do tend to get the more appreciative ones.

So the morning when Roque woke up batting at his own nose to try and work out what the hell was making it itch was a revelation to them all. Roque was drunk. With one eye cracked open, he tried to judge more accurately whether drunk or hungover was a more accurate description and it was taking a while to come to any solid conclusions, during all of which he was still trying to figure out what the problem with his face was. Last night had been . . . he smirked evilly as he remembered the previous evening and fleecing Jensen out of loads of money while they played at cards. He'd then proceeded to buy tequila with some of his winnings and drink copious amounts of it. Yup, it had definitely been a good night.

He finally found the culprit for the nose-tickling and peered blearily at the post-it note he was now holding in his hand. "This is just to say I love you really, Capt. Roque. . . but you might want to check out the parade ground sometime." He paused, flopped back on the bed for a moment wearily, before he began to think of all the different things that Jensen could do down on the parade ground. His eyes snapped open again and he rolled over, ignoring the 'wrong', 'bad' sensations that both his head and his stomach were now sending him.

His clothes from the night before were beside him on the floor and he pulled them on quickly, closing his eyes and clamping his mouth firmly shut in the hope of delaying any imminent puking. He sat down again, bending over to jam his feet into his shoes and tie the laces before he stood up to head for the door. . .

The door that wasn't there, along with the walls round it that were also missing. He looked back over his shoulder to see that yes, his bed was still there, with his covers on it and his rug beside it . . . but his room had vanished from around his bed.

To be fair to Roque, he was not an unintelligent man under normal circumstances, liquor as we are all aware can dull the senses and slow the thinking processes somewhat, so that clearly explained his ability to completely _not_ grasp his current predicament. "Where the fuck has my house gone?" he demanded furiously.

A throat clearing behind him had him turning round again and finding himself face to face with Colonel Haywood. Fuck all he needed. "Morning sir," he greeted reluctantly.

The man raised his eyebrows expectantly, then when Roque said nothing further, he prompted, "Captain. . . what are you doing in the middle of the parade ground?"

"The . . . the parade ground, sir? This is . . . I mean was my bedroom."

The man before him gave a genuine harrumph of disgust. The still liquor addled part of Roque's brain decided it had never heard a harrumph quite like it; in fact it wasn't sure that it had ever heard one at all. The more rational part was poking at him saying, or rather screeching, "Parade Ground! You're in the middle of the Parade Ground! The Fucking Parade Ground! Minimize damage! Minimize damage!"

Neither part of his brain seemed to actually be functioning well enough to for Roque to work out what to actually do. So in place of any better options, he stared at Colonel Haywood for a while and gave his brain time to wake up and take some fucking action. The first thing that registered was that if this was the parade ground and not his bedroom then he should be saluting the senior officer who was still standing in front of him.

Fortunately after this long in the army that was instinctual. His body took over and he snapped off a salute that didn't have quite the desired effect of the Colonel in front of him as it didn't seem to decrease the frown any and Roque suddenly thought that right now he was in the process of kissing his rank goodbye and being busted back down to Private. . .followed by the 'And Jensen is going to pay for this!" because whatever else he hadn't figured out, he just knew that this was all down to Jensen.

The "Ah, Colonel Haywood, there you are. I was just coming to see you," behind him in Clay's gruff voice wasn't entirely reassuring. "Roque," he greeted, stepping past his XO and laying a hand on Haywood's arm to turn him away from Roque back towards the building in which he had his office. It was the only acknowledgement Roque had to his presence and he just stood there still at attention and waited, until the two men had begun to walk away.

He'd just let his salute drop and slumped in place when Clay turned back and said, "Roque, sort this mess out, give Jensen back what you took and please . . . for everybody's sake, get your fucking underwear down from the flagpole. Nobody needs to see that."

Roque was going to stuff Jensen's fucking post-its where the sun don't shine and teach the little fucker a real lesson one of these days he decided as his brain finally caught up with the situation.

"Roque, you brought it on yourself," Clay added. "So leave him the fuck alone or I'll bust you down to Private myself!"


End file.
